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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528266">Floater</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa'>maaaaa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Floater [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Sentinel (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:14:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the TS Ficathon Round 3 challenge The Sentinel Gets a Clue. My prompts were: Rucker Ellison, a surfboard, Peru. Originally posted 5/20/07. Beta'd by Spacepixell, but any errors are mine.</p>
<p>Glimpses of Jim's and Blair's lives pre-canon and post TSBYBS living with the Chopec.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Floater [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Floater</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Jim Ellison was a teenager he spent about as much time masturbating as any healthy red-blooded boy, and in general he’d always been pretty satisfied with his clumsy, frenzied efforts at self-gratification. But the summer he turned sixteen, and spent six weeks in California helping out at his uncle’s marina, his cousin Rucker showed him a few tricks on how to do it right.</p>
<p>Out beyond the docks, behind the boathouses they were being paid to scrape and paint, Rucker gave him pointers. And Jim watched with bug-eyed scrutiny as another male handled his own cock with sure-handed leisurely finesse, squeezing his own balls, grazing fingers over his own anus until he brought himself off with a deep-seated sigh of satisfaction.</p>
<p>Jim spent a lot of extra time down by the boathouses after that.</p>
<p>And then, to make things even better, Rucker introduced him to girls who’d jerk him off with soft, warm hands. Or suck his dick into their hot, moist mouths. And these girls turned out not to be the tramps or sluts his dad warned him about during a nasty lecture after Jim told him about the girl from the wrong side of town he was going to ask out. These girls were cute and talkative and curious. They were willing to let him slide his hand up under their shirts and caress their breasts, and worm his hands down inside their jeans and under their panties to discover for real what he’d only up to that point seen in the well-worn, dulled-gloss pages of old Playboy magazines.</p>
<p>The girls were part of a group of kids, boys and girls in their mid-teens same as them, that Rucker hung out with, who’d all sit around a blazing fire on the beach until late into the night under starry skies and talk about their dreams and music and the injustices of being young, just like anyone else.</p>
<p>And even better still, one hot, muggy night when the boys in the gang all had had too much stale, lukewarm beer filched from Uncle Mike’s secret stash after the girls had left, he discovered the joy of hard, strong hands of other guys stroking him to hazy, shuddering completion. Guys who maybe weren’t gay or bi, who didn’t know or didn’t care, but were even more curious than the girls.</p>
<p>But none of that compared to the ultimate turn-on Rucker introduced him to one fine, hot summer afternoon under a blindingly brilliant deep blue sky on an out of the way white sand beach about five miles up the coast from the marina.</p>
<p>Surfing.</p>
<p>With a borrowed board and a crash course from a surf bum Rucker knew from previous summers, Jim took to the waves like he’d been a surfer all his life, or in a past life. The hard on he got while riding a wave rivaled any other he’d experienced that summer.</p>
<p>After that day, he spent even more of his spare time at that beach then he did out behind the boathouses.</p>
<p>That year, hanging out with Rucker, Jim tasted the unparalleled joys of summertime lollygagging for the first time in his life.</p>
<p>It was the best summer of his life.</p>
<p>Until now.</p>
<p>~*~*~*~</p>
<p>“Rucker, no way, Rucker? Man, I still cannot picture Rucker on a surfboard,” Blair prattled, shaking his head. He was walking a few feet ahead of Jim, supporting the nose of the surfboard they carried above their heads with Jim holding up the tail. They wound their way through the jungle along a narrow path toward the beach, with Blair going on and on, rehashing his amusement at the thought of Rucker Ellison on a surfboard and not being able to sync it up in his mind with the Rucker he’d met.</p>
<p>Jim didn’t mind the jabbering. He just smiled indulgently, concentrating on the view of Blair’s back…lean, muscular, and slick with perspiration, with his arms stretched taut above his head to keep the board level between them. The sight reminded him of one of their favorite games, leaving an appreciative glint in his eye and a snarled leer on his lips.</p>
<p>It hadn’t taken Blair long to go native, now that he wasn’t any longer, strictly speaking, an Anthropologist. Unlike Jim, who wore at least a muscle tee and old fatigues or jeans, along with sturdy boots, Blair’d shucked his civilization clothes right along with the remnants of the life they’d left behind in Cascade. Most of the time, like now, he was all but naked; his ass barely covered by a loincloth slung loose and low on his hips. His butt cheeks, still a shade paler than the rest of his body, tended to shimmy teasingly from side to side, hide-and-seeking from under the thin strip of material.</p>
<p>Blair’d let his hair grow out long and wild, and Jim decided he liked it like that a lot more than he’d thought he would. The curls and the sun-streaked coppery-gold color mesmerized the village children. Blair let them braid it or roll in into loose dreads, adding trinkets or strips of cloth among the strands at their whim as he sat among them day after day telling stories, teaching and learning. To the children’s frustrated delight, Jim untangled it all at the end of every day, carefully removing each tidbit and plait, his deft fingertips never once snagging or snarling the locks.</p>
<p>It was during one of these storytelling sessions, on a rainy afternoon with the entire village huddled in one of the communal huts, that one of the elders told a favorite story of the legendary wave-riders from bygone days. Jim’s eyes had lit up with secret delight and wonderment, knowing well that Peru was fabled for its rich surfing history and the world-class waves along its northern coast.</p>
<p>Later, in the dark, as Jim groomed Blair’s hair so he could do what he wanted with it while he employed some of the tricks he’d learned during that long ago summer in California, he shared his memories of that time with Blair.</p>
<p>For the next few days, Blair had spent every spare moment in conspiratorial chats with some of the men in the tribe, followed by several weeks of intermittent forays into the jungle, spending large chunks of his days beyond the reach of Jim’s hearing, fending off all Jim’s questioning eyebrow arching and mischievous underhanded attempts to get him to fess up to what he was up to.</p>
<p>But Jim didn’t care. The days of mistrust between them and wrongly suspected hidden agendas were long gone. Jim knew the tribe would look after his guide on whatever his latest exploit was. He worried a bit of course, especially when Blair returned in the evening looking exhausted, covered with a variety-pack of bruises, bangs and scratches, smelling of hard physical labor. He’d known Blair would confide in him when, and if, the time was right, so he’d shrugged it off, dialed down his sense of smell so he could rub a strongly scented unguent into Blair’s tired muscles, and made love to him gently.</p>
<p>Still, he hadn’t been prepared for the surprise that met his eyes when he’d finally found out what Blair’d been up to.</p>
<p>The surfboard was like none he’d ever seen. It was long, narrow and heavier than he was used to, hewn from one large log. It didn’t have the aerodynamic lines of modern boards, or a fin, making it obvious Blair had insisted they construct it in the traditional way that had been recounted through generations of storytelling.</p>
<p>It was an unwieldy looking device, making Jim wonder if it’d sink like a stone before he ever got a chance to even think about catching a wave. He could spot the caring workmanship that had gone into it, and the extreme effort to smooth the grain, but from ten feet away Jim spotted at least a dozen tiny slivers waiting to impale his knees, hands, torso and feet. No matter…he could smooth those out himself, or make Blair do it, naked and wriggly, under his watchful eye.</p>
<p>Standing on either side of the board with huge goofy grins on their faces, Blair and his conspirators presented it to Jim in front of the whole tribe, making a big shebang about it, with Blair explaining by way of a combination of his limited Quechua and sign language, that their very own sentinel was a wave-rider. This brought about squeals of glee, a shower of questions, and hearty backslapping and good-natured elbowing for Jim, who tried valiantly to downplay Blair’s exaggerated tale of his prowess.</p>
<p>Blair was beaming like a nine year old who was presenting an uglier than sin, lovingly made clay pinch-pot to his mom.</p>
<p>It was just about the most beautiful thing Jim’d ever seen. And the board wasn’t really all that bad looking either.</p>
<p>Everyone wanted to accompany Jim and Blair on their first trip to the beach to try out the board. But Jim insisted on no audience this time, not only because he wasn’t sure of the board’s seaworthiness and needed a trial run before he’d show off, but also because he wanted the first time to be his and Blair’s alone.</p>
<p>So they’d set off on the two-day trek to the coast with nothing more than a couple of skins of fresh water, a pack with a few supplies, the board, and the punch of adrenaline-filled eagerness.</p>
<p>As they neared the beach Jim started monitoring the wind patterns and the sounds of the ocean, listening to the break and crash of the waves, sniffing the salty air. Blair stopped talking, knowing by instinct what Jim was doing, and not wanting to intrude on Jim’s building anticipation.</p>
<p>When they stepped out of the jungle and onto the beach, Blair reacted for both of them by shouting, “Awesome!”</p>
<p>They tipped the board sideways and lowered it to the sand. Blair pulled the water skins over his head, dropped one, took a swig from the other, and then handed it off to Jim. He walked toward the sea, shaking his arms spastically, and rolling his shoulders.</p>
<p>Jim slipped the pack off his shoulders, gulped some water, and mimicked Blair’s arm movements. Then he came up behind Blair and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, pulling him close. He rested his chin on Blair’s shoulder and stared out over the waves.</p>
<p>“This is perfect,” he whispered in Blair’s ear and then kissed it lightly.</p>
<p>Blair gripped his hands on Jim’s forearms and leaned back against the warm, inviting expanse of Jim’s chest.</p>
<p>“Show me your stuff, big guy,” Blair teased, nodding his head, his entire body toward the ocean.</p>
<p>Jim rocked them both ever so slightly, considering things, studying the patterns of the waves. The best waves hit the Peruvian coast in the latter part of the year, but he’d lost track of the seasons and actual months since they’d come to Peru, having no need for them in the jungle.</p>
<p>These waves would do, though. They’d do nicely.</p>
<p>Besides, they’d be back again, assuming the board held up, assuming he survived this run.</p>
<p>Jim’s dick jumped as the next wave crashed against the shore with a whoosh of salt spray. It pressed into the small of Blair’s back, sending shivers through both of them.</p>
<p>“It’s tradition to christen the board, before hitting the surf for its virgin ride, Chief,” Jim said, exhaling a warm breath against Blair’s collarbone.</p>
<p>Blair twisted his neck, dipping his body a little so he could look at Jim. His eyebrows scrunched thoughtfully and he gnawed on one corner of his mouth as he tried to remember anyone mentioning anything about blessing a board, worrying that he’d missed an important custom, knowing there were ceremonies for everything, fearing he’d screwed up as shaman, as guide. Or maybe it was a whacked-out surfer thing of some sort that Jim had picked up from Rucker, or…</p>
<p>“It’s a new tradition, Blair,” Jim explained, pecking Blair’s lips softly before he managed to work himself to hyperventilating, “I just now thought it up.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Blair questioned, his eyebrows un-scrunching and shooting up into his hairline in a split second. He grinned cheekily.</p>
<p>One of Jim’s hands started moving down across Blair’s belly, traveling slowly, his fingertips tracing the line of soft swirly hair until it rested possessively on Blair’s barely covered penis. The forefinger of his other hand idly twiddled the small metal hoop in his nipple.</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Jim chuckled, giving Blair’s cock a pat.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Blair responded as his face lit up with understanding.</p>
<p>Jim released his hold, twirled Blair around and shoved him toward the surfboard with a smart swat to his ass. “Get on the board, on your hands and knees, facing the ocean,” Jim directed. “And loose the thong, “ he added with a dismissive grimace, waving a hand at the loincloth.</p>
<p>Blair looked back over his shoulder, fiddled with the fastenings just under his bellybutton, let the loincloth drop off as he walked away, and stuck his tongue out at Jim. He wiggled his ass, just because he knew Jim would be expecting it, and then got on the board as he’d been told.</p>
<p>Jim disrobed quickly and efficiently. He sidetracked to the pack he’d dropped, snagging the jungle equivalent of lube they pretty much never went anywhere without. He knelt behind Blair on the board.</p>
<p>“Do you want me to---?” Blair started to ask.</p>
<p>“Shhhh,” Jim hushed him. “My tradition, right? No talking.”</p>
<p>“Right, your tradition Jim,” Blair whispered in reply, nodding his head, his cock already hard. He fell silent except for a deep, audible intake of breath as Jim dribbled the lube into his crack and worked it into his ass.</p>
<p>Jim watched the waves for a few moments…listening, tasting, touching, sniffing. He set his hands on Blair’s hips. He pushed up against Blair, his half-hard cock nudging his butt. He timed the ebb and flow of the ocean swells, swaying in time with its cadence. As its tempo built within him, his cock filled and hardened. And when the next wave hit the shore, he drove into Blair. As the wave receded, he pulled back.</p>
<p>He rode Blair, making love to him to the beat of the waves calling to him. Blair gulped short, measured lungfuls of air, moaning under him, feeling it too.</p>
<p>“Touch me,” Blair hissed through gritted teeth, wanting one of Jim’s hands on his cock instead of his flank.</p>
<p>“No,” Jim rasped. “You’re there, you’re there, babe, come on, come.”</p>
<p>“Touch me dammit,” Blair insisted, thinking he’d buckle under the intensity as his ass clenched, his arms started to shake, and his knees started to wobble.</p>
<p>But instead Jim pushed in as deep as he could, throwing his arms into the air as he came and let out a bellow.</p>
<p>“Whoa, damn, oh, oh,” Blair chuffed as his body shook and his come splattered all over the board. He collapsed on top of the mess, laughing, “What the fuck? What the fuck was that, Ellison?”</p>
<p>Jim didn’t answer. He pulled out of Blair, gave Blair’s ass another hearty wallop, and rolled him unceremoniously off the board onto the sand. He hefted the board up and under an arm and took off.</p>
<p>Blair swung up and folded into a lotus position, not caring that sand was crawling up his butt, as he wiggled and settled himself to watch the show.</p>
<p>Jim splashed through the surf, tossing the board into the water and himself onto the board in one blurred movement. He paddled out past the breakers, egged on by Blair’s hoarse hoots and hollers.</p>
<p>The board was balanced true and held solid beneath his feet as he caught a beauty of a wave and rode it in.</p>
<p>The End</p>
<p>* Floater – a surfing term for riding up on the top of the breaking part of the wave.</p>
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